Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was just past noon on a Thursday, and the sun hung lazily over the campus, casting long shadows from the gothic brick buildings of St. Luke’s University. Students wandered the quad in clusters or sat curled up under trees with textbooks cracked open on their laps. The breeze was light, warm with the promise of late spring, and the scent of fresh-cut grass carried faintly through the open windows of Castiel Novak’s classroom on the second floor of the humanities building.

The lecture hall smelled faintly of old books, whiteboard markers, and last-minute anxiety. Afternoon sunlight filtered in through the tall windows, casting slanted beams of gold across the rows of desks where Castiel’s students sat with laptops or spiral notebooks balanced in their laps, the air buzzing faintly with effort and caffeine.

Castiel stood at the front of the room, chalk in hand, the sleeves of his pale blue shirt pushed to his elbows, chalk dust clinging faintly to his dark slacks. His navy tie was slightly askew, in that deliberate way that looked like it had been hurriedly loosened, which it had, about twenty minutes into the lecture when the thermostat failed to keep up with the rising temperature and Castiel’s voice had started to grow hoarse. 

The quote on the board read:

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

“And what Emerson challenges us to consider,” he said, pacing slowly in front of the podium, “is whether true self-reliance can exist in a society built on inherited ideas. On borrowed institutions. On the… fear of being misunderstood.”

A student shifted in their seat, scribbling something quickly in the margin of a worn copy of Self-Reliance . Another leaned forward, elbows on knees, brows drawn in thought.

Castiel stepped down from behind the lectern, the soft creak of the floor under his boots the only sound for a beat. 

“Emerson wasn’t concerned with popularity,” Castiel said, voice smooth but weighted, gravel-tinged in that way that held attention without needing to demand it. “He wasn’t writing to please anyone. He was writing to survive. And that , that raw, relentless pursuit of selfhood, is what makes this essay so radical, even now.”

A few students shifted in their chairs. Jordan Ellis, a sharp-eyed sophomore who always sat front row, raised her hand.

“But isn’t the whole concept of ‘self-reliance’ kind of… privileged?” she asked. “Like, who has the freedom to be completely independent in a world full of systems designed to control us?”

Castiel smiled faintly, not condescending, but warm, inviting. “A fair critique. And one that many scholars have raised. But perhaps what Emerson is really arguing for is internal freedom. The ability to think without fear. To trust one’s own voice above the clamor of conformity. It’s not a denial of the world’s constraints but a rebellion against letting them shape your soul.”

There was a pause. Heads nodded slowly. Behind the windows, a familiar low rumble broke the quiet.

The class, twenty-five juniors in “Foundations of American Thought”, was more alert than usual, maybe because the discussion had grown animated, or maybe because they’d all noticed the sleek black Chevy Impala that had rumbled into the faculty lot.

It wasn’t a car that usually made appearances on their pristine campus. Most faculty drove modest hybrids or the occasional battered Volvo. The Impala, with its gleaming chrome and low, purring engine, looked like something out of a movie or maybe a memory. Something with history.

Castiel glanced once, unconsciously, at the open window. He didn’t need to see the car. He felt it, like a pressure shift in the room. And sure enough, a familiar silhouette leaned against the hood a minute later, booted foot crossed over the other, arms folded. Sunglasses on, waiting.

Dean. Dean didn’t do subtle. Castiel’s mouth twitched, betraying a small, private smile.

Castiel’s chest ached, in the quiet, sweet way it always did when he saw Dean unexpectedly. Or expectedly. Or in any circumstance, really. It had been four years since they’d met, two years since they’d moved in together, and Castiel still hadn’t gotten used to how simply seeing Dean could knock the air out of his lungs. Dean Winchester was that kind of beautiful,  the kind that didn’t ask to be noticed, but always was. The kind that was born of grease-smudged knuckles, soft flannel, and stubborn loyalty.

Dean was a mechanic, co-owner of “Winchester & Harvelle Auto Repair” over on Elm Street, known for doing honest work and charging fairly. Castiel had brought his old Volvo in when it started making a noise that sounded vaguely like a dying bird, and Dean had been the one to lean in the window, wipe his hands on a rag, and ask, “She giving you trouble, professor?”

And that had been it. One crooked grin and the world shifted on its axis.

Dean hadn’t known he’d just met someone who quoted Thoreau in casual conversation. Castiel hadn’t known that someone who rebuilt engines by feel alone could also make the best coffee he’d ever tasted and hum Springsteen under his breath while cooking bacon.

They’d come from two different worlds, Castiel from academia and quiet libraries, from parents who had expected tenure-track by thirty and a certain kind of suit at faculty parties. Dean from back-road motels, long stretches of asphalt, and years of taking care of his kid brother when no one else would. He didn’t talk much about his childhood, but Castiel knew enough to fill in the gaps. Knew about the father who’d been there in body but not in presence, the mother who was gone too soon, the years of scraping by. Dean had grown up building armor out of confidence, some of it real, some of it necessity. He carried himself like someone who never expected to be invited in but had learned how to stand his ground at the threshold anyway.

And yet, Dean had never let the world harden him. He was gruff, yes. Could be closed-off, sure. But underneath the sarcasm and sharp edges was a heart so full of love it stunned Castiel sometimes. Dean loved fiercely, his brother, his car, his job, and, somehow, him.

“Alright, that’s all for today,” Castiel said, closing his book and glancing toward the clock. “Your midterm reflections are due Monday. Please, for the love of Whitman, cite your sources.”

The murmur among the students started immediately. There was a rustle of notebooks, a few groans, and a couple of eager students darted forward to ask clarifying questions. But most of them filtered out, squinting down through the window at the Impala. 

“Professor Novak,” said a voice. Castiel turned and found himself facing Jordan Ellis, a sophomore with a keen intellect and a nose for gossip. She smiled conspiratorially. “Is that your car out there? The black one?”

“No,” Castiel replied, gathering his papers with deliberate care and slipping them into his satchel.. He felt a flutter in his chest, but his voice remained even. “It belongs to my partner.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Partner?” another student echoed, brows raised. “Like… your partner, partner?”

Castiel looked up, expression open but steady. “Yes. That’s my partner, Dean.”

More murmurs. A few surprised expressions. And then Jordan leaned forward, a grin breaking across her face. “Damn, Professor. Didn’t know you had taste. ” Jordan blinked, then broke into a grin. “He’s… not what I pictured.”

Castiel’s ears warmed faintly. “He’s picking me up for lunch.”

Another student muttered, “That’s like, movie-level hot. Is he a biker?”

“Hot,” another voice muttered, and a few chuckles followed.

“Mechanic,” Castiel corrected, lips twitching despite himself. His ears turned pink, but he smiled despite himself. “Dean restores classic cars. He’s very skilled. And he’s meeting me for lunch, so—”

As if on cue, there was a sharp rap on the doorframe. “Hey, Cas,” Dean called, leaning his shoulder against the frame, sunglasses now hanging from the collar of his shirt, green eyes cutting across the room with an amused gleam. “You done blowin’ these kids’ minds?”

There was a wave of sudden silence, broken only by Jordan whispering “Oh my god ” under her breath.

Castiel straightened and smiled, small, but unmistakably soft. “Yes. Just finished.” Castiel’s heart thudded once, sharp and sweet. “Come in.”

Dean stepped inside, and the room shifted again, not in tension, but in presence. His boots echoing faintly on the linoleum floor. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Figured I’d save you from grading-induced starvation.”

He was magnetic in a way Castiel had never fully understood. A few students gawked openly, one dropped their phone.

Dean lifted a hand in a casual wave. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Jordan said, grinning. “I’m Jordan. I took a class on classic literature last semester but now I think I should’ve waited.”

Dean glanced at Castiel, amused, then back at the students. “Hope he didn’t bore you to death.”

“He’s great,” Jordan said quickly. “Very… passionate.”

Dean tilted his head, eyebrow raised. “Yeah, he is.”

The implied double meaning wasn’t lost on anyone. Castiel sighed, but there was warmth behind it. He reached for his bag. 

“All right, kiddos,” Dean grinned, backing toward the door. “Go study transcendentalism or whatever it is you people do. I’m stealing your professor.”

“You gonna bring him back?”

Dean paused dramatically. “We’ll see.”

There were more laughs, and then Dean was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Castiel turned to find nearly every pair of eyes still on him.

“I’ll be back for office hours after lunch,” he told the remaining students. “Email me if you have any questions.”

“Enjoy your date, Professor,” someone said as they filed out.

He found Dean leaning against the car again, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the polished surface of the Impala.

“You know,” Castiel said, approaching, “you’re something of a campus celebrity now.”

Dean smirked. “What, just ‘cause I showed up with a decent car and a face?”

“More like because you showed up at all.” Castiel tilted his head.

Dean stepped closer, and Castiel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Dean hooked a finger in the loop of Castiel’s tie and tugged gently.

“You say it like that often?” he asked, tone low.

“Say what?”

Dean leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “That I’m your partner.”

Castiel felt the corners of his mouth twitch. “It’s accurate.”

“It’s more than accurate. It’s… official.” Dean pulled the sunglasses off and met his eyes. “You okay saying it like that in front of your students?”

“I don’t hide you, Dean,” Castiel said, suddenly serious. “Not ever.”

Dean looked at him for a long moment, then reached forward and tugged gently on the end of Castiel’s tie. “Didn’t think you did. Just nice to hear it. Out loud.”

They’d had that conversation once, about being open. Not because Castiel was closeted, but because he lived in a world of faculty evaluations, donor relations, and subtle glances at department mixers. The academic sphere could be progressive in theory and archaic in practice. But Castiel had never been ashamed.

Not of loving Dean.

They stood there for a second, quiet in the golden sunlight. Students passed by and pretended not to stare. Castiel ignored them all.

“Lunch?” Cas asked eventually.

Dean nodded slowly. His fingers brushed Castiel’s wrist, and Castiel turned his hand palm-up in silent invitation.

“Are you going to tell me what’s in the basket, or are we playing mystery date?”

“Let’s get outta here,” Dean said, finally threading their fingers together.

They walked down the hallway side by side, drawing more than a few stares. Dean didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He never cared much about appearances. But Castiel noticed everything, the way Dean’s thumb rubbed slow circles on the back of his hand, the way students whispered behind them, the way sunlight turned Dean’s hair gold where it caught on the crown of his head.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” Castiel said quietly as they reached the stairs.

“Sure I did,” Dean said. “You’ve been grading midterms all week and skipping lunch. Figured I’d kidnap you before you withered into some ghost of academia.”

Castiel huffed a soft laugh. “I appreciate the concern.”

“You’ll appreciate it more when you see what’s in the trunk,” Dean said, leading him outside.

The Impala gleamed like a second sun, and Castiel couldn’t help but admire the way Dean had rebuilt it from the ground up. He had seen the photos, a wreck in a field, rusted and hollow, and then the slow resurrection: chrome polished, engine restored, leather seats reupholstered by hand.

Dean popped the trunk and revealed a picnic basket, complete with a thermos and Tupperware stacked with sandwiches.

“You packed lunch?” Castiel asked, touched.

“I made lunch,” Dean corrected. “And yeah, okay, I might’ve roped Sam into helping. But he owed me.”

Castiel smiled, fingers tightening slightly on Dean’s. “You really didn’t have to.”

Dean shrugged, closing the trunk. “Yeah, I did. You’re important to me, Cas. I want people to know that. Your students. The barista who keeps spelling your name ‘Castle.’ Whoever.”

“Dean…”

Dean turned to him, suddenly serious. “It’s just… when you said that back there ‘that’s my partner’, I dunno. Hit me right in the chest.”

Castiel reached up, brushing his hand along Dean’s jaw. “Good.”

Dean leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Castiel’s lips, right there in the middle of the lot. A few students gasped. One girl let out an audible “yes!” But neither of them cared.

When they finally pulled apart, Dean said, “So. Park or rooftop?”

“Rooftop,” Castiel said. “Less gawking.”

“You sure? You might be a trending hashtag on campus by now.”

Castiel just smiled and opened the passenger door.

As Dean pulled out of the lot, Castiel looked back once at the building. His students, his lectures, his world. Then he turned forward again, toward the rumble of the engine and the man beside him.

He had never imagined his life would look like this, not back when he was chasing degrees and publishing articles in obscure journals. He hadn’t known that love could smell like motor oil and taste like peanut butter and jelly on homemade bread. He hadn’t known that someone like Dean Winchester, loyal, stubborn, generous to the bone, would choose him.

This was his rebellion , he realized. His self-reliance. Not defiant isolation, but the choice, every day, to be fully himself. To love without apology.

And Dean? Dean was the truest person he’d ever known.

And every day, in every quiet, golden choice, he chose Dean again.